Somewhere In Space
by UumRonin
Summary: Now that Clint Barton finally has a home in Stark Tower with his teammates, things start to get bad before they get good. A new wave of villains decide to show up, targeting Hawkeye. Barton later discovers he is a test subject for one of the most unprofessionally relentless groups out there. Friendship, fights, and Clint whump.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

You can always tell when someone else has a hold of their lives, when they catch the boomerang that spun so rapidly out of control over the years and turn it around, sending it back to the same hand that threw it in the first place. It was a time like that for Clint Barton.

The streets were littered with newspaper from days before, clumps of paper and ink seeping into the storm drains. Trains were passing in the distance. You were almost close enough to hear the mechanisms inside the engine twist and turn as they eventually grinded to a halt several miles away. Clint could tell how much it had rained earlier by how much water filled an empty flower pot dangling from the doorway of a coffee shop on his way home. He had guessed about three inches.

His sneakers skidded against the pavement as he watched bits of rock and shattered concrete skip ahead of them after colliding with his foot. He should be in more of a hurry, he thought, what with having so much to do and prepare for: his clothes needed to be washed, the apartment needed to be cleaned, he had paperwork to sign, and any other mundane tasks that come along with moving.

He wrapped his fingers around the crumpled envelope in his pocket and as he felt the ink filled with good news flow through his body and up into his face, he lit up a smile.

_Finally. _He thought. _My ticket home._

Rounding a corner, he checked the time on his cell phone. 2:16. Perfect. He picked up his pace a little after realizing he still had a bit of a walk to go. Instead of investing in a mode of transportation, he purchased a cell phone. Sure, it was handy when someone needed to get in contact with him although it wasn't very often. The thought that someone might want to contact him though was all the motivation he needed to keep paying the bill.

Keeping up his mighty strides, hands still wrist-deep in their pockets, his walking came to an abrupt stop. A block ahead of him stood a burly group he'd never seen before. That was always a bad sign that even a rookie assassin to recognize. He turned to go left instead of straight, choosing to take the long way home. Today was a good day. He didn't need whatever those people had.

As his foot crossed over the other in efforts to change his direction, a hand whipped from behind him. He heard the whirring of the wind around it just in time to twist and block its force. The group started moving towards him.

_Of course._ He let out a short sigh as his first attacker moved positions, dancing around on his feet like a five year old. Clint could tell this guy had no idea how to hurt someone. Luckily, Clint knew a thing or two.

His arm swung and collided with the side of his assailant's head, throwing him off balance. As he positioned for another punch, four more hands grabbed his arm. Another lunged at his legs. Clint twisted and flopped but struggled down to the ground with a handful of sweaty thugs on top of him. This isn't the worst thing that's happened, he thought. None of them were particularly hurting him.

He felt a giant hand push down on his neck, pinning it to the wet sidewalk.

"Tell that kid to go away!" He opened his eyes and saw one of the men swat his arm at a nearby child.

"Hey, get lost!"

"Man what are you doing? Get the case!"

"I thought you had the case!"

"God dammit Wesley you're the biggest piece of shit!"

At the realization that Clint was losing to a bunch of idiots, he started feeling a lot angrier. With his free arm that had been squished beneath him, he started pushing himself off the ground. One inch, then two inches…until a sharp pain in his neck right below where the man's hand was brought on a blanket of blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you…" _

The periodic vibrations of the phone vibrating in his pocket kept humming as Rick Astley continued to sing the chorus over and over again.

Slowly, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone. Without answering it, he started opening his eyes. The phone stopped ringing just as the song was about to start again for the fourth time.

Clint shook his head a little, feeling jumbled. In front of him was a brick wall and beside him was a dumpster. He did a quick scan of himself, checking for injuries. A headache, dizziness, nausea…almost like a hangover without all the fun the night before. He put his weight against the dumpster, using it to help him stand. Once on his feet, he felt his entire weight shift from one shoe to the next, then back to the other. Before he could lean up against the dumpster for more support, he fell the opposite way onto the ground.

He released an, "ugh!" as he fell back to the ground. There was no time to waste though. He had to figure out where he was and, more importantly, how to get home. With another attempt, Clint leaned against the wall this time. The slime oozing out of the bricks wiped against his hands as the jagged edges of the bricks themselves left red marks on his palms.

For whatever reason, the men that attacked him didn't cause him much harm. What other reason could they have? He pondered this as he used the building beside him as his crutch, steadily making his way out of the alleyway and into the light of day.

The sudden contact of the sun burned his eyes. His arm shot up to shield its brightness and saw that there was a good amount of blood on his forearm. It was still wet, meaning he either wasn't unconscious for very long or it happened just before he woke up. Either way, he needed to get home.

"_Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you…"_

This time he looked to see who was calling. The screen lit up, flickering "Natasha" with a green and red button beneath it. He swiped to the left.

"Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?"

Clint looked around and saw a restaurant across the street, some kids playing on the stoop of an apartment complex, and an employee taking out the garbage.

"I think I'm near 32nd street?" His injured arm went up to scratch the back of his head in a guessing motion.

"32nd street? Why are you all the way over there?"

"That's a good question." He picked a direction that he thought was home and started walking in it. Today, that direction was left.

"Well hurry up and get here, I haven't got all day."

He remembered what today was and why he was even outside in the first place. Today he moved into Stark Tower with the rest of his team and Natasha offered to lend a helping hand getting all of his stuff together.

"What time is it?"

"5:30."

"Shit!" He looked before crossing the street and picked up a light jog, lowering the distance between him and his friend.

"I'll see you soon. At least you left your apartment unlocked for me." Natasha hung up. Locking his door was always a struggle for him to remember. Few people knew where he lived anyway and soon, he would be living with all of them.

The phone slid back into his pocket as he passed Decauter Street. The only reason he remembers this street is because one year for Christmas, a little girl walked up to him and gave him the paperclip angel she had made with her class. He thought about her as he saw the street sign, wondering if he still had her gift tucked away somewhere.

After fifteen more minutes of hustling, he made it through his front door. Natasha was lounging on the couch, flipping through some books she found stacked on the table.

"I didn't know you ran track in high school," she held up the book and pointed to a little blonde boy in the back row of a group of high schoolers.

"We don't talk about high school." He closed the door behind him and walked into the kitchen. Natasha got up to join him and noticed the bright red strands dripping from his arm.

"You're aware of your bodily fluids seeping onto your floor?" She reached for some towels. He didn't say anything in response. It wasn't any of her business. He took the towels and wiped off the blood, revealing a small gash, but big enough to cause some bleeding.

"We should get moving. Stark expects us at eight for dinner."

"Seems like kind of a late dinner."

Clint took what little kitchenware he owned out of the cupboards and placed them in a box, following with a clock on the wall, a picture of his parents, and some miscellaneous trinkets. He never was one for sentimental value, so what little memorabilia he did own definitely had to mean something.

Natasha grabbed an armful of clothes and dumped them into a trash bag. The two worked quietly, accompanied by the noise from the streets that drifted in from the open windows.

The drive to the Tower was a silent one. Clint obviously didn't want to talk about his day and whatever joy he had at the start of it had dissipated. Natasha stared out the window, uninterested in the bleak sights of the city they lived in.

"There he is! Come on in big boy!" Tony slapped Clint on the back and shoved him through the front door, not paying any notice to the boxes and duffel bags Clint was carrying nor offering to help. "Let me show you to your room."

Tony trotted inside his home with his chin held high, showing off the glory that is his tower.

"This is the living room. There are also living rooms on the 6th and 10th floors as well as lounges on every even-numbered floor. I like even numbers."

"Stark, I've been here before."

"Yes, but it's not often that I get to open my front doors to new faces. Security and reasons and blah blah blah." Clint looked back at Natasha and rolled his eyes, she offered a smile in return. "Your room is on the 5th floor. In fact, all of your rooms are on the 5th floor. Except for mine. Mine is on the 2nd."

Tony stopped and turned around to face Clint directly. "The lower levels, floor 1, and floor 2 are mine. Do you understand? They are my lairs, my dojo, my yin and yang, my…whatever other metaphors you can come up with. Do not enter unless invited or unless you are in such dire need of my help that you physically cannot wait as you are a worm on the ground. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir," Clint didn't break eye contact which was difficult because when Tony gets serious, the last thing you want to do is be the one he's serious towards.

"Great! Onward we go!"

The door swung open to a vastly empty and undecorated bedroom. The area of the room itself was bigger than the entire floor plan of his apartment. Clint dropped the boxes on the bed and swung the duffel bags off his shoulders.

"Well don't get too comfy," Tony checked his watch, "dinner is in about ten minutes." He turned and left, offering Natasha a salute on his way out. Natasha put her box down next to the others and sat on Clint's new bed.

"What do you think?"

Not wanting to seem too eager, he masked his emotions. Clint Barton is very trained at masking his emotions.

"It's alright." He looked at her and she could tell he was more thrilled than what he was presenting. They both smiled at one another and as she got up to leave, she stopped in the doorway, "I'm glad you're here."

When he looked back to reply, she was gone. Clint turned and walked out onto the balcony, looking down on the city below. The same smile that had appeared earlier that day found its place again.

_Finally._ He thought. _I'm home._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The sweet comfort of a new mattress was almost too exciting to fall asleep in; warm covers, non-rusted springs, and a new pillow. It felt like a cloud. Just as Clint started fading in and out between sleep and reality, a twitch caused him to open his eyes.

"Huh?" He muttered, sitting up and mostly upset at having to leave his warm and welcoming pillow. Shaking it off as nothing, he proceeded to lie back down. This time, the twitch was accompanied by a shock down his back.

His legs swung around the sides of the bed and brought him to his feet, carrying him to the bathroom where he could hopefully snap out of whatever this was.

The bathroom was a few doors down the hall, to his disadvantage. There were several on the entire floor, but Clint's room was at the end of the hall so he had to walk a few extra feet. As he extended his arm to turn the knob, he buckled down in pain. His muscles, his lungs, his everything stopped working long enough to send him crashing to the ground. With an effort to stand back up again, he tried to lift his arms but they wouldn't respond, his legs the same.

Clint, being the person he is, isn't one to cry out for help. Spilling over in a pool of his own blood, third-degree burn, some bullet wounds here and there….pity stuff, he thought. He could manage this.

A bump in the night is something super-humans are trained to take seriously, whether it ends up being a potential threat or a cat in the building over. Steve Rogers, comfortably sound asleep in the nearest bedroom awoke to the sound of Clint's body collapsing in the hall.

"Barton?" Steve's eyes were still adjusting to the darkness as he noticed a figure curled up on the floor a few feet from his door. Steve rushed over and knelt down next to him. He grabbed Clint's shoulders and started to pull up.

"Ow!" Barton yelped. Not only were his muscles unresponsive, but also they were sent into a spasm at the touch. Steve let go and Clint thumped back to the floor.

"What's wrong? What's happening?" The panic in the Captain's voice was unsettling. Clint had no idea what to respond with because he didn't have any idea either.

"I don't know," Clint looked up at Steve, masking his fear. He was holding his arms close to his chest, like a fearful child.

Steve pondered what to do for a moment. He looked Barton up and down, not noting any wounds or misplaced bones. From where he came from, those were the only dead giveaways of an injury.

"I'm going to get Banner," he said as he stood up and began marching down the hall. Turning back, he hesitated, not wanting to leave the archer by himself. "I'll be right back, okay? Don't move." With that he was gone.

Clint chuckled to himself at his orders. He wasn't about to be the center of attention on his first day here. Hawkeye sunk into the background…seeing better from a distance, living better from a distance. In a second attempt to get up, he fought through the agonizing pain in his chest. Every use of a muscle felt like he was made of telephone wire, sending signals of electricity to and from its source. His bones felt like tectonic plates, slamming into one another and elbowing the others before it slid into a place it wanted to be.

This sucks, he thought. This really sucks.

His legs worked together to bring him to his knees. A small step, but progress nonetheless. Straining himself that much took a lot out of him than expected. From kneeling to sitting and leaning against the wall, Clint started realizing that even if he did manage to stand there wouldn't be much he could do afterwards.

Dr. Banner slept heavily and soundly, like a determined grizzly. The sound of his door barging open was enough to startle even him, however.

"Huh? What? Who are you? What's going on?" Bruce was on his feet before he started asking questions to the figure standing in his door. Steve flicked on the light, which burned Bruce's eyes.

"I need you to come with me, something's wrong with Barton." Rogers started out the door as Bruce was struggling to put on pants and walk at the same time. As the two rounded a few corners, they came upon their archer, who had just slumped out of his kneeling position and into the wall next to him.

"Clint what's wrong? Can you hear me?" Bruce kneeled down and checked Clint's vitals. Nothing abnormal stuck out.

"It just…hurts to move," he heaved, out of breath from exerting most of his energy.

Steve stood with his arms crossed, analyzing the situation. He was their captain, their un-elected leader, and their guardian. Eyes on what Banner was doing and Barton's reactions, he had a thought.

"He spent all yesterday moving, he's probably just sore."

Bruce had a feeling it was more than just that, but in the middle of the night it was hard to diagnose someone with something without any symptoms. "Let's help him back to bed then."

Steve on one side, Bruce on the other, they lunged their friend to his feet and dragged him back to his bed. Clint's eyes had been closed when they started carrying him, but he was awake enough to feel the embrace of his bed again and the safety of his pillow wrap around his head. The feeling of security helped him forget about the pain he was in long enough for him to fall back asleep.

"I don't think that was from moving, Captain." Bruce shivered as he walked back to his room. The nighttime chills had gotten to him.

"We'll see how he feels in the morning. Get some sleep, doc."

* * *

"Temperature, JARVIS."

"Seventy degrees, sir."

"Wind?"

"Eight miles per hour, blowing east, sir."

"Perfect! What's say we go out and throw the old pigskin around?"

"I don't have arms, sir."

Tony poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a seat on one of the bar stools. His kitchen really was immaculate; the newest model appliances, furniture in perfect condition, and everything was always clean.

"Don't you ever get tired of him, JARVIS?" Natasha pranced into the room, smiling at Tony as he glared through his juice.

"Don't answer that, JARVIS." He said as she poured herself a glass as well.

"It's always a pleasure, sir."

Tony gave Natasha a sarcastic smile and she rolled her eyes, a typical morning in Stark Tower.

The elevator dinged and Banner stepped out, holding a clipboard and flipping through papers without looking where he's walking, a true skill for someone to have.

"Good morning, Bruce." Natasha flipped open the newspaper and he sat next to her at the table. On cue, Rogers walked in once the newspaper was opened and took a seat at the end.

"Have you guys seen Barton yet?" He saw everyone else had something to drink and felt obliged to as well, standing up and making some coffee.

"No, he's pro-…" As Natasha was answering, she turned to the doorway to see the man himself make an entrance. The Doctor and Rogers both looked up at him. He looked a little tired, but other than that it didn't seem like anything was wrong.

"Morning," he said to no one in specific as he made his way to the counter. He picked up a mug and poured a cup of coffee.

"How do you feel?" Bruce broke the silence.

"Fine," Clint shrugged and took another sip. Natasha looked at Tony, feeling like she had missed out on something. Clint looked around the room and felt the unspoken pressure that was being focused on him by the others, specifically the two who came to his aid only a few hours ago. Unable to handle large amounts of pressure, he thought it best to evacuate. As he turned to go, Bruce noticed something on the back of his shirt, something that looked like blood. He got up and stopped Clint from exiting in such a hurry.

"What are you doing?" Clint snapped.

"There's blood on your shirt," Bruce spun him around and pointed to the splotch of red that had collected at the base of the back of Clint's collar. Clint reached an arm around and felt it, seeing the red liquid on his fingers when he brought them back.

"Clint what happened?" Natasha stood and started walking toward him. He stood there, his blood on his fingers and looked at all of the faces looking back at him.

"I…I don't know," he started to back away from the crowd of people that were slowly moving toward him. He didn't register them as allies; he saw them as the enemy. They were not his team. They were trying to kill him. Kill them, Clint.

"What?" He turned and looked at Steve, thinking it was him who was inside his head.

Steve gave a confused look, "How about you have a seat for a minute."

As Steve extended an arm to guide Barton to a chair, Clint flung his arm back and threw a punch aimed directly at Rogers' head. Steve was stunned for a moment at the sight of his teammate attacking, but reacted quick enough to block it. Bruce ran up in efforts to restrain Clint before anyone got hurt and at the touch, Hawkeye shut down.

The muscles that hurt so badly the night before, the bones that felt like anvils and refused to move for him, the breath that kept him alive…they all gave out.

The room that was filled with voices and life suddenly became filled with nothing but darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"_God damn it Wesley you're the biggest piece of shit!"_

"_Okay, he's out. Open the case." The man holding the case opened it and delicately pulled out a small, shiny object. The large hands holding Clint down released and the group switched from abrasive to scientific as they began their experiment. _

"_Make the incision." A small, sweaty man wearing a brightly colored flannel handed a scalpel to the one presumed to be Wesley. _

"_Why me?" Wesley protested, rejecting the tool. _

"_Shut up and do it or I'll cut you open instead!" _

_Wesley took the scalpel and made a small cut at the back of Clint's neck…_

Clint opened his eyes. He tried to bolt upright but a hand forced him back down onto the table. He was lying on his side in a bright room.

"Take it easy, Barton. We need you to hold still," he heard. Trying to look over his shoulder, he saw Dr. Banner and Rogers behind him. At the sight and sound of his comrades, he relaxed a little.

"What's going on?" As he spoke, he tried lifting his arms only to find them fastened to the table. His voice was weary, not wanting to fully wake up yet.

"Those are on because you swung at 'ol Captain over here. I don't think you're out to get any of us, but standard protocol suggests we keep you under watch until a resolution is found."

"A resolution to what?" Clint's eyes were heavy, and so was his head.

"Remember the blood I saw on your back?"

"No."

"Well I fou-…wait, what? You don't remember?" Puzzled at his response, Banner scooted away from Clint and started looking over some paperwork, research that he had started over Clint.

"I remember you telling me, and then…that's it. I woke up here. Can I roll over, doc? I'm not one for sleeping on my side much."

A different voice tuned in, "Well to fill you in, you freaked and tried to punch me in the face. I blocked it, we grabbed you, and you fainted," Captain explained.

"Then you were brought here where we've found out something rather interesting about you." Bruce rolled his chair back over to Clint and picked up the instruments he was using to poke Clint with until he woke up. "We've found some sort of microchip embedded into your skin."  
"What the HELL does that mean?" The restraints tested their strengths again as Clint pushed his body against them, wanting to be set free of whatever game he felt he was being played in.

Steve took a few steps back and began nervously pacing. It was no surprise that Barton would be shocked at the news, but now what was he supposed to do? What does a captain do in this situation?

"Well, we're not exactly sure. I'm going to continue examining it, so I need you to remain as still as possible. Let me know if I'm causing any pain." Dr. Banner, a magnifying glass in one hand and a medical instrument in the other, began poking at the small, rectangular lump on the back of Clint's neck. "Do you know how this might have gotten here?" He asked, not looking up from his work.

"No," Clint cringed as he felt a poke under his skin, "Well, maybe. I mean, yeah. I was jumped by these guys on my way home and woke up in an alley. I don't know what they did to me though."

"Well that sounds like a safe assumption that they are behind the thing in your neck. I ran a few x-rays while you were out. Turns out it is actually quite small, no bigger than a centimeter. However, that's only the bulk of it. Small, and I mean very tiny, appendages are sprouting from it. The way it has formed resembles that of a seed, sprouting out its roots."

"So I'm turning into a tree." Clint shivered as he felt a piece of metal glide from one point on his neck to another. He realized he was in a patient gown instead of regular clothes, providing a lot less warmth than he would have preferred.

"Can't you just take it out?"

"Well, seeing as we don't know exactly what it is and assuming it's a threat, it'd be dangerous to swoop in and remove it without knowing what might happen."

Clint sighed. _Great_. More alien stuff inside him. After what happened in New York, more surprises were just what he needed.

"However," Banner continued, unfastening the cuffs that kept Barton in place, "since there's nothing more we can do until the results come back, we'll just have to keep an eye on you."

Sitting up, the cold chill of the room sent a shiver down Clint's back. He took Dr. Banner's words as optimistic, even though nothing had been answered or fixed. He reached for his clothes and started getting dressed.

* * *

"You can't all go, end of discussion." Fury whipped around and spat toward the group. A cold, oval table stood between the leader and the five Avengers swiveling in their chairs on the other side.

"With all due respect, sir, this isn't something we can take loosely," Rogers maintained a steady stare with the eye he was talking to, "It would be safer and we'd have a higher chance of success if we all were involved."

The team waited in silence for an answer. Natasha glanced over at Clint whose feet were propped on the table as he reclined in his chair. It had been a week since his strange encounter with Steve, but everything had seemingly returned to normal.

"If I let you all go and you all got killed, I wouldn't have much of a team left for the next mission now would I?" Fury leaned against the table with both hands. He never sat down, which is something that people always just got used to.

"You're forgetting that Birdboy over here spazzed out last week."

Clint glared at Tony with dead eyes.

Bruce interrupted the tension, "I've been running tests and he's fine now. His vitals remain steady and we've kept a close eye on him since. Whatever episode happened before shouldn't happen again."

Clint relaxed in his seat a little. It was nice hearing from someone else that he was going to be okay.

"Agent Barton, do you feel you are ready to go out into the field this soon?" Fury led the rest of the eyes in the room to Barton.

"Not much point in being an Avenger if you're never ready, sir."

Fury smiled. He knew that no matter what obstacle came Barton's way, he never slowed down. Barton was a warrior, a soldier, and he never stopped doing what needed to be done.

"Good," Fury stood back up and grabbed a file off of a nearby desk and slid it to the middle of the oval table where the team sat, "You all know your positions then. You leave tomorrow morning." With that, he turned and left.

There had been a massive chemical leak in an armed facility along the coast of South Africa. Usually, this wouldn't catch the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D., but the chemical was rumored to contain bits of energy from the teseract, which is something to turn your head to.

Steve took the folder and nodded at the rest of the team, "Get some rest. We're going to need it."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The steady whir of the plane's engine filled the silence that loomed over the teams' heads. It had been a while since the entire team went on a mission together. Iron Man was suited up, minus his faceplate, leaning back in his seat and wondering what witty joke he could tell that would lighten everybody up.

Hawkeye and Black Widow occupied the cockpit, pushing buttons and twisting knobs, working together silently to bring the plane to its destination.

"I still don't know why I'm here. I'm not any help when I'm like this," Bruce motioned to his person, "or when I'm the Other Guy."

"We might need a doctor. And who knows, last time the Hulk proved his worth quite nicely." Steve shot a smile towards Bruce and he smirked in return.

"Besides, things get interesting when people lose control." Tony piped up from the back of the plane.

Despite his team's efforts to lighten his mood, Bruce didn't feel any better. It didn't matter what anyone else said. He was a monster.

"ETA three minutes. We'll be landing one mile west of the base." Natasha spoke through the intercom, her eyes focused on the plane, her mind focused on her injured friend sitting beside her. "Everyone know what they're doing?"

"I bust down the doors, rough 'em up, hack their systems, take some samples of the chemicals and we're on our way. Cake." Tony crossed one leg over the other, observing his handiwork of his machine as he spoke.

"You really have this whole 'team' thing down, don't you Stark?" Captain shook his head, but couldn't hold back a slight smile. It always humored him how lightly Tony took everything. It kept things less awful.

"I wouldn't be the star player if I didn't."

"That didn't register as the same plan that we discussed. Stark, you'd better stick to what we agreed on." Widow's voice was heard both through the speakers and faintly from the cockpit. Although her head never turned to make eye contact, they could feel the sting of her eyes as she spoke, always threatening, always demanding.

"We know what we're doing." Captain looked to the front of the plane and spoke, although it was to the back of two seats. "Stark disables the security on the panels on the west side of the building-"

"Which will only be disabled for a matter of seconds, so you've got to get in there fast." Tony interrupted.  
"Yes," Steve continued, "which is where Barton and Romanoff will enter in through the air ducts and make their ways to the security control room."

"And from there it's just a matter of holding off the clowns while our two little ninjas get what we need." Tony uncrossed his legs and reached for his faceplate.

"And I sit here." Bruce mumbled to the floor.

Steve scooted over to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You keep an eye out for us, and if we need you you'll be there."

Bruce said nothing in return. Steve could see his own reflection in the water that gathered in Bruce's eyes, but in a blink it was gone and Bruce returned his gaze to the floor.

"Alright everyone. It's go time." Romanoff took of her headset and walked to her gear in the back of the plane with the other teammates.

"Take us down right behind those hills." Rogers leaned over Barton's shoulders, pointing in the distance to a couple of rocky hills.

The plane landed smoothly, its components whirring to a stop as Clint powered down the mechanical beast. He walked to the back with everyone else, headed straight for his bow. A click of its case, a whip of his arm, and all he needed to win was firmly in his grasp.

The back of the plane opened and the team silently set off to work, the cool desert air keeping their sweaty palms and neck in balance. All but Bruce took their positions along the side of the building.

"Alright, Stark. Head up to those vents," Steve loudly whispered.

Tony nodded and soared up several stories, eyeing a metal air vent close to the roof. He worked quickly to unhinge it and let the piece of metal fall to the ground. A glowing sensor turned red and started flashing quickly.

"Stark! Would you be quiet! You're going to get us noticed!" Romanoff, gun in hand, harshly snapped as Iron Man joined them back on ground level.

"We've only got a few seconds. Come on Feathers, you first." Tony stepped toward Clint and wrapped his arms around him, using his rockets to carry the archer forty feet into the air and deposit him into the air duct, followed by the Black Widow.

"Okay, now you and I wait here until we get the all-clear from them that they've reached the control room." Steve's stance against the wall was a prepared one, as the Captain was always ready for anything. Meanwhile, Tony took the opportunity to take a break and relax until his assistance was further needed.

_Typical_, Steve thought.

* * *

"This isn't what I thought they meant when they told me I'd find myself in tight situations," Clint scoffed as he forced his shoulders through the tiny vents, the width of his body barely fitting.

"It's okay. You like small places," Natasha was having a much easier time crawling behind Clint, her back nor shoulders touching the walls of the ducts as her figure slid through them.

The vents were freezing and both assassins fought not letting their teeth chatter as they climbed further into the coldness. Tony had calculated that the security room would be about a twenty-five yard crawl and so far they had only managed about ten.

"How did we get stuck with this job anyways?" Clint nudged his shoulder to wriggle it loose. It felt like the vent was getting smaller.

"We're good at what we do."

"Shit…" was all Natasha heard in response.

"Barton?"

"Tash I think I'm stuck." He kicked his legs for whatever reason and tried to wiggle himself free, but it was of no use. His shoulders were jammed between the metal sides of the air ducts.

"Wonderful," Natasha sighed. Just what they needed.

"Agent Romanoff, what's your status?" The earpiece she wore buzzed a little before coming in clear and Captain America's voice was audible.

"Agent Barton is stuck in the vents. We're about halfway to the security room." She put her hands at the base of Clint's shoes and started to push, but he didn't budge an inch.

"Got any butter?" Clint sighed out and rested his head in his hands for a moment, reflecting on the lamest way to mess up a mission. He never failed to screw something up, it seemed. "You know, this could-…"

"Shh!" Natasha froze in silence and Clint did the same. "Do you hear that?"

Low voices mumbled from beneath them. A few guards occupied the room they were above. Lucky there were no holes in the vents to allow either of the assassins to be seen. Clint's shoe nudged out of place, causing a bump to echo throughout the metal tunnel.

"What was that?" One of the men from below looked up where the noise originated. "Is someone there?"

The duo remained absolutely still. The receiver in Natasha's ear released a frequency as Steve's voice started piping through.

"Shit!" She ripped it out of her ear and began ramming her shoulder into the back of Clint, pushing him forward a few inches.

"There's someone in the ceiling!" The other guard pointed out, opening fire to the white walls and ceiling over their heads.

Holes of light began appearing around Barton and Romanoff.

"Clint, go!"

"I can't!" He flopped like a fish out of water, struggling to release the vent's grip on him. During his attempts, the vent shifted downward an inch. The damage that the building was taking from the gunfire plus the weight of the assassins plus Clint's movement was bringing down the ceiling.

Natasha started backing up and pulling on Clint instead, hoping he could move backwards if not forwards. As she crawled away from him a few feet, Barton released a yelp as something pierced his side and his struggles lessened for a moment.

The metal of the vent groaned as it sank downward, giving out beneath Clint. She reached her arm out, her fingers brushing against his pant leg as he fell to the floor in front of the two guards while she stay in the remains of the vent in the ceiling.

Clint smashed to the floor, landing on the same side that had just taken damage. He jumped to his feet and his instincts took over. Disarm the closest guard, use his gun to shoot him in the chest, kick at the other's legs, strangle him to the floor, watch as the air leaves his lungs and never returns.

Clint stood up, letting out a deep breath. He put the guard's gun in his belt and looked up at Natasha, who was looking at him from her place in the vent.

"Nice work," she smiled. "But you're hurt." She started to climb down toward him, but more shouting voices erupted in the hallway nearby.

Clint turned to face the direction of the sound, but an unrelenting shock electrocuted through his body, his eyes clenched in pain and all at once his body relaxed. He felt his knees buckle before all of him fell limply to the floor, the blood from his wound spreading onto the carpet.

Natasha froze in the vent and watched as several more men ran into the room and hoisted Clint up by his shoulders, dragging him out of her sight.


End file.
